From the Fringes of the Milky Way
by darcyfarrow
Summary: He asks her, "What are you thinking?" Her eyes reflect the moonlight pouring through their bedroom window. She is slow in answering. It's difficult to describe, because she's not thinking; she's feeling. At last she says, "I've seen so many wonderful and beautiful sights in our travels, but someday I'd like to see something. . . truly magnificent."


**A/N. Inspired by Tori Amos' "Flavor."**

* * *

She's impossible to shop for.

Everything delights her, simply because it's come from him, so how can anything be special? After 300 years of fulfilling wishes, he knows everything that humans want—and she desires none of it. Carriages, castles and crowns carry no weight with her; she would as soon have a wildflower from the foothills, if it was picked by his own hand, as a tiara of diamonds or a bracelet of gold.

In the seventh year of their life together, he gives up guessing and learns to listen. She stands, one summer night, at the edge of their garden, her head tilted so far back he wonders she doesn't fall backwards. As fireflies flit about her, she reaches her open palm toward the stars as if she is imagining she is cradling them, keeping them safe from the darkness. He watches her from the window of his turret; he wishes to join her, to see what she sees, _how_ she sees, but if he approaches she will end her game and give her attention to him instead. So he watches her, invading her privacy, yes, but learning.

When she comes inside to lie in his arms, he asks her, "What are you thinking?" Her eyes reflect the moonlight pouring through their bedroom window.

She is slow in answering. It's difficult to describe, because she's not thinking; she's feeling. At last she says, "I've seen so many wonderful and beautiful sights in our travels, but someday I'd like to see something. . . truly magnificent."

He knows then what gift to give. Weeks before, he makes his preparations, studying his books and refraining from the use of magic, even the simplest of spells. Magic is a mundane fact of their life now, so several days pass before his abstinence from it strikes her notice and she comments upon it. "Call it a spiritual cleansing," he answers. "Some people fast; I forgo magic." She cocks her head at him but says nothing more.

He is abstaining because he will need a great reserve of energy for what he plans to do.

On the morning of their anniversary, she cooks for him his favorite breakfast; he picks for her her favorite flowers from the fields below their mountain. She is content with this gift and expects nothing more, and he lets her think there will be nothing else until that evening. "Come to the garden," he urges, and although it's late winter and the plants are all at rest, she follows. When she steps through the great doors into the night, he greets her with a flick of his wrist and his magic covers her in leather. "For warmth," he explains, although he finds the form-fitting trousers and boots and jacket enticingly rebellious. He wraps her in a cloak, and she protests, "It's not that cold." But he replies, "It will be." His hand draws lightly down her face. "Close your eyes, love. So you won't get dizzy." When her eyes are closed he embraces her, tucking her head into his shoulder, and she feels the ground drop away from her feet and the wind swirls about her in a mighty rush. Her eyelids rise but he presses his hand to her eyes and instructs her again, "Keep them closed," so this time she obeys.

Either the world is moving away from them or they are moving away from the world; she can't tell which. The wind whips her cloak, causing it to wrap around them both, and her hair flies about, strands stinging her cheeks. She should be afraid, but she's merely unsettled, because her beloved's arms are wrapped around her and she knows he will always catch her if she falls.

Then the wind stops, all sound stops, and yet they continue to fly, until at last with a bump they land on solid ground. His arms slip away, but he doesn't release her; her hand locked in his, he invites her to open her eyes.

Ahead, she sees pitch black. Above, she sees balls of orange fire that flare and fade and explode, sending beams of light into the void. Beneath her boots is dust so thick and dry a lifetime of sweeping could never clear it away. She wants to ask where they are, but she can't form words. He turns her by the shoulders and points to someplace low and distant to the east. She gasps.

It's huge and round and bright blue like the waters of the Lake of Eternal Tears after spring thaw. Clouds of white pass over its face, like the hands of a pianist floating across a keyboard, and responding to the clouds' touch, the mighty blue ball rotates, and she hears a symphony. The great orbiting ball is ancient and new at the same time, and it's sparkling with life.

"What does it look like?" he whispers in her ear, his arms slipping about her waist.

"Like love. It looks like love," she breathes. "Truly magnificent."


End file.
